Disclaimer: The work of J.R.R. Tolkien does not belong to me. I am merely wreaking uncoordinated havoc in his universe for my own enjoyment. I wish I could get paid.

Translation: I own nothing.

Please understand that the thoughts of my characters do not reflect my own.

Nostos

-5-

January 3019

You asked me why I do not write to you of our battles. I would not say that I relish killing, though the Orcs we hunt deserve no less, but being a captain and a Rider of Rohan is no trial to me. Still I would set our letters away from that life."

-Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth

.

"Here do I swear fealty and service... to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end." (The Return of the King, Minas Tirith)

.

"I loved [my brother] dearly, and... I knew him well." (The Two Towers, The Window on the West)

The boy told him to take the letter to the princess and so he took it and went to find her. He didn't know exactly where Princess Lothíriel would be, except that she was upset with her brother and had yet to leave the house. Methodically he searched the house, beginning with the top floor, knocking on all the doors and discovering nothing but a very drunk footman. An icy basin of water solved that problem, but still he did not find the princess.

She was in the garden, of course, though it barely deserved to be called such, so small was it, just a bench and some roses and a tall, broad tree whose branches reached from the fence to the roof. In the spring its leaves would shade the entire house but they were still lost in January's chill and the branches were bare.

His charge was sitting very quietly on a bench, her gaze distant, and he cleared his throat. She didn't stir.

The Princess Lothíriel, for all that she was nineteen, was both wise beyond her years and very childlike, so he considered how best to approach her. Sometimes she reminded him very much of the daughter he would have liked to have had, because for all her pride and gravity she was just a little girl inside, one very frightened of the world.

"Princess," he said softly, "Your Highness."

Abruptly her face slid into aloofness, as though she had slammed the doors tightly closed across any emotions that threatened to appear. "Dánaron. What is it?"

He clasped the letter behind his back. Wait. "My lady, are you well?"

For a moment she stared at him and he wondered if she would snap. Then she sighed a little bit. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Highness."

He watched the emotions that ghosted across her face and then she said, "The smith at Dol Amroth was- a very nice man. I liked him very much."

He nodded to show that he was still listening, though he was no expert on smiths.

"His name was Orodreth, and sometimes he would let us watch while he forged the swords or made nails or shoes. Sometimes he would give us candy, too." She stopped. "But he never married, and it wasn't until I was older that I realized why." She had turned away from him, tracing patterns into the wood of the bench. "And that was because he lived with another man, who wasn't just his friend." More sharply, she asked, "Do you understand?"

He ducked his head to hide a grin. "Yes, my lady. I understand. What is your question?"

"Is that wrong of Am- of Orodreth?"

"I am, of course," he began slowly, "just a soldier, Princess." Eyeing her back, he thought she wanted her father. He had heard of the Prince's legendary wisdom and wondered what he would say now to his daughter. "And of course I suppose that many people did not agree with your Master Orodreth."

"No," she agreed, "no, they did not."

"But," he said, "you loved your brother very much two days ago. Why should- this- change anything?"

"We were not speaking of Amrothos!"

"Forgive me. I meant Master Orodreth."

Still she did not seem angry. "I do not think it is right. I could not imagine-,"

"Of course you cannot, my lady," he said, "but you are not- Master Orodreth. I imagine he still cares for you very much."

"Yes," she said, "yes, he does. I know he does." She began to walk restlessly, trailing her fingers along the bare rose bushes. "Ouch!" The princess put a bleeding finger in her mouth and then said, "I should have understood it before. I should have seen it. Why he never really liked any girl. Why he was always gone." She shook her head very firmly. "What you say has… some reason. But I still do not think that-," she stopped. "Thank you," she said more firmly. "Thank you, Dánaron. You may go."

"My lady," he said, "a letter for you."

She whirled very suddenly and snatched it from him, her face smoothing out as if that letter held the answers to all her puzzles, but her voice was neutral. "Thank you," she said again.

He bowed and withdrew, wondering what about that letter was so important.

Lothíriel,

This is to be a short letter, since we ride again very soon. You know me well enough to know I do not believe in dreams, but since you write of one- I will do my best. I do not think it is your imagination; you are far too level-headed for that, nor do I think you drank too much ale. Or perhaps you did. Your brothers seem to be a curious influence, but perhaps men of Gondor are much stupider than the Rohirrim, or at least have not the head for drink.

As to your cousin, we know nothing more than you. I believe I wrote to you that we lent him a horse, but it has been many months and still we hear nothing of him. But Boromir of Gondor is the greatest captain of his people I have seen, more of Rohan than of Gondor, though now is a time of uncertain prospects.

I would tell you to trust what you know, not what anyone would tell you think or say or do, for you have always been a strong person of good convictions, if perhaps slow to act. Your dreams could be prophetic, and if so, you would do well to heed them.

I would promise that I will write more when we return, but I feel that very storm coming upon us and know that nothing is certain. May the Valar guide your steps-

E.

In the kitchens she had the time to ponder the letter he had sent her, tucked safely away in her box in her room, the box she used to keep all his letters. She had read it four times, nearly enough to have memorized it, disappointed with its brevity, but of course he had the duties of the East-mark to attend to. The Third Marshal of Rohan could not waste time writing letters to young girls in Gondor when he was needed.

He wrote very little to her of his duties; he had explained once, briefly, that while he found being a warrior no hardship, he found their letters an escape from that life. For Éomer, that was a high compliment indeed, for he rarely disclosed his feelings. And rightly so, she thought, wondering if Denethor had read the letter, if he had puzzled over the lines. Wondered what her dream was. Read of his son. Laughed at her silly platitudes and fears. No, she did not blame Éomer, for she felt as though her one sanctuary had been violated.

"Lothíriel." It was Kallista.

"Hello," she said, but she concentrated on the heavy kettle she was lifting off the stove.

"I wanted to-,"

She glanced over her shoulder at Kallista and her sweaty fingers lost their grip on the kettle. Boiling hot water splashed all across the floor and she yelped in startled pain as it spilled across her thin slippers.

Immediately the women flocked around her, soaking up the spreading puddle and tugging her away. Kallista's hand on her arm was tight.

"Lothíriel! Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine," she said.

The woman who ran the kitchens, Mistress Avaris, regarded her with sharp, beady eyes. She reminded Lothíriel of a seagull. "Child, go walk somewhere. Take a rest."

"Yes, Mistress," she said obediently, and Kallista gently led her from the kitchen.

"Are you mad at me?" the other girl demanded, and barely pausing for breath, "because I wanted to tell you, truly, but I thought you knew, but then you started asking me if we were courting and I thought maybe you were joking and then I asked Taregon and he said no, you didn't know, but I-,"

"Kallista," she said. "I can't understand you." She felt strangely reassured by Dánaron's light footfalls behind them.

The girl took a deep breath. "I'm so very sorry."

She wanted to be furious, to scream and rage at Kallista, but found that she couldn't ignore the true apology in the other girl's eyes. She looked away but said, "I know."

She heard a relieved breath. "Good. I was so worried you wouldn't ever talk to me again, and I didn't want that to happen!"

"No," she said, "it wouldn't."

"Perfect! Then I have something to show you. Come with me." Kallista gave her no choice in the matter and very firmly began to tow Lothíriel through the city until they reached the markets. She had never seen so many people at once, not even at her uncle's formal feasts or at the markets in Dol Amroth: vendors hawked their wares to passers-by, selling everything from fresh bread to garlic to hair brushes to puppies to freshly killed rabbits. She smelled meat and yeast and dust and sweat in an exhilarating blend; frightening, but exciting all the same!

Kallista showed her a man who sold little trinkets, silver hair pins and ribbons and cheap bracelets; a bookseller whose volumes included storybooks and histories, all of them battered but in good condition; a butcher brandishing his bloody knife at each of the dripping carcasses. It was huge and crowded; they had to push their way through the crowds and she felt oddly vulnerable as she never had before. The stalls wound through the main streets and alleys, showcasing lavender soaps and onion braids and shoe polish, the venders old men to young mothers who gathered their children about them. But the crowd was forcing them apart and she felt Kallista's hand slide from her wrist, and then her friend was calling for her: "Lothíriel! Lothíriel!" but she couldn't spot her and where was Dánaron? A child pushed her aside and she stumbled; then a hard hand caught her arm and she said, "Dánaron!"

But it wasn't; a man with a red nose and breath that smelled of ale (already? it was barely evening!) hauled her to her feet and she did not like his eyes at all, but she was a princess of Dol Amroth, so surely no tavern drunk would dare lay a hand on her. But as his eyes wandered across her chest she realized her dress was soiled and wet from the Houses, her hair hanging down her back.

"Don't-," she began, but he had already tugged her towards the edge of the crowd, to the alley.

He tasted sour and she kicked at him. Hard. In response his hand on her forearm tightened and he pressed his hips into hers, pushing her into the brick wall.

She would have kicked him again, but there was no need, for a much more welcome someone wrenched the drunk off of her and flung him away. Coughing, wiping away the taste of his mouth on hers with her hand, she stumbled but righted herself. Dánaron had the man on the ground, his foot planted very firmly on his back.

"My lady?"

"I am- fine," she said. "I think."

"Shall I have him arrested?"

"Whore!" the man said, though his voice was blurred. "Bitch!"

She did not see her guard move, but then the man howled in sudden pain.

"Shut your mouth," said Dánaron very coldly. "Princess?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Let him go." She took a breath calm herself and saw how pathetic he was, slobbering into the dirt, his eyes unsteady and his nose reddened.

The man howled in pain again and then Dánaron let him up, though still the drunkard did not move.

"Let's go," she said. "He meant no harm." She wanted to retch, could still taste his mouth on hers, his hips pressing her backwards as if she were some common whore.

"No, my lady," Dánaron agreed, "unfortunately, this world is full of fools."

"So it seems." She tried to calm her trembling voice and her back prickled, wondering if he would follow her, but Dánaron walked behind her and he would keep her safe.

The venders had turned their eyes away from the moment the drunkard had dragged her away and when Lothíriel turned to glare at them fiercely they would not meet her eyes. So! They would feign blindness, would they, when they saw injustice? Or, she thought, perhaps they do not know what to do. Perhaps they are just as frightened as I.

"Lothíriel! Lothíriel?" It was Kallista. "Valar be praised, are you all right?"

"Yes," she said curtly. "I'm fine, but I want to go home."

Perhaps Kallista understood more than she let on. "Yes, of course. You've had quite a day, haven't you?"

Pity she could not tell Éomer; he would have some words of comfort.

She went to her brother that evening once she had washed away all traces of the drunk's mouth and hands on her. He had not come to dinner, nor had she expected him, too. She knocked on his door and when he opened it, raw pain in his eyes, she stepped back a little. His eyes were dark and guarded, his shoulders stiff as he opened the door. He did not move to let her in.

"May I come in?" she asked.

There was strange distance between them and she reached out her hands to him as though to bridge that gap, but she could not. He recoiled as if she had stabbed him.

"Ro," she said. "Amrothos."

"What do you want?" he asked, turning away from her, and she read the anger, the pain, in the taut lines of his back. His limp was more pronounced, perhaps because of the damp.

"I," she said, "I love you. Very much."

He did not move.

"But I cannot understand you."

"No," he said, very softly at first, and then louder. "No, of course you can't!" He turned on her suddenly. "Is it too much to ask that you keep your judgment to yourself? Am I some sort of twisted animal because I am not like the others? You would judge me! You would pity me! I have never wanted pity and yet that is all I seem to get, from you, from Father, from Elphir and Erchirion. I do not want pity!"

"You would not let me finish!" she interrupted. "I cannot understand you. I am-," she paused. Repulsed was too strong a word. Betrayed, perhaps. It felt wrong. Yet looking into her brother's eyes she saw the same boy who had put frogs in her bed, taught her to swim, let her win the races they had run. She did not understand him. She did not want to understand. But perhaps understanding was not necessary. "But I think I love you all the same."

They were not the right words, but neither were they wrong. His face remained cold.

"Please," she said, "don't be angry with me."

Slowly he nodded, though his face remained twisted in pain. "Sister," he said unsteadily, "I did not wish you to think any less of me."

A/N: Thoughts? Please review!